Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8)

by Lisa Jackson

  “Heard what?” Bentz asked.

  “About Donovan Caldwell.” A pause. “He’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Brianna’s cell phone rang just as she and Jase were heading back to the offices of the Observer. She pulled the phone from her purse, saw that it was Milo again, and didn’t answer. Though she wanted to connect with him, she needed a little privacy to talk to the reticent member of the twinless twin group, a man who rarely shared, but sometimes called her for advice. It was weird. He did not make an appointment, didn’t want her to be his counselor, and rarely shared during the group meetings. And yet, sometimes he sought her out. Brianna wouldn’t have bothered dealing with him if he weren’t a part of the group. As it was, she felt obligated, as a twinless twin herself, to give comfort or advice or just lend an ear.

  But not right this moment.

  He’s called twice. Maybe he’s in trouble. You need to talk to him.

  As they reached her car parked on the street, she noticed the time on the meter had expired.

  She and Jase had already decided to work out of his apartment, on his computer. “What time works best for you?” she asked.

  “I’ve got a few things to deal with right now. Give me a couple of hours?” His gaze delved a little deeper into hers and her stupid heart had the nerve to flutter. “Work for you?”

  “Perfect.”

  He gave her his address and she repeated it back to him. “You said apartment 3-C.”

  “That’s it.” One side of his mouth twisted upward. “Okay, I’ll see you then.” He rapped on the roof of her car twice, then headed into the building that housed the Observer offices. She watched his tall frame disappear through the glass doors and couldn’t help but wonder about running into him again after all these years, after half a lifetime of believing that she’d never see him again. Not that she’d given it much thought since college. A high-school crush was just that, a first little palpitation of the heart that one remembered fondly but left back in school.

  Then why did she experience the same rush now? Why did she realize that her cheeks were warm and it had nothing to do with the Louisiana sun moving slowly across the sky?

  “Because you’re an idiot,” she told herself as she settled behind the wheel. She didn’t have time for schoolgirl fantasies, not when Selma’s daughters were missing. “Get it together.” She jabbed her key in the ignition. As her little car started, she forced herself to concentrate on the importance of meeting with Jase. They had to find Zoe and Chloe. And in the process, she believed that they would prove that Donovan Caldwell was not the 21 Killer.

  In the hours before she was to meet Jase, she needed to gather and copy her notes, make a few phone calls, and emotionally gird herself. She’d already discovered dealing with Jase was complicated. Not only was she fighting her attraction to him, but there was something else going on between them, something she didn’t understand, an underlying tension that she couldn’t pinpoint.

  Was he interested in her?

  Or was it something else, something a little darker?

  As she checked her mirror and nosed her Honda into traffic, she noticed a parking enforcement officer turning down the street. Well, maybe it was a good omen that she’d narrowly escaped getting a parking ticket. Maybe her luck was changing. Maybe today was the day Selma’s daughters would be found.

  Or maybe not.

  Maybe the girls would never be located.

  “Don’t even go there,” she warned, glancing into the rearview mirror.

  When her phone rang again, she saw Tanisha’s number and promised herself that she would return the call the second she got home. And Milo’s, too. And she would check in on Selma. Yeah, she didn’t have a lot of time before she met up with Jase again.

  At that thought, she actually smiled.

  “Wait. What?” Bentz said, his cell phone pressed to his ear. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing from Hayes, who’d called him from California.

  Donovan Caldwell was dead?

  No! Not at the very moment Bentz was starting to believe he might be innocent of the murders of his sisters and wrongly convicted of being the 21 Killer.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No joke.” The tone of Hayes’s voice was flat, all business.

  “But he’s locked up.”

  Montoya, cutting through an alley, shot Bentz a look.

  “I know,” Hayes agreed. “Housed in a private cell. Well, at least it’s been private for a few days. There was room for another inmate, of course, but his most recent cell mate was released a couple of days ago and for some reason, some red-tape clusterfuck I think, the other bed was unoccupied. Despite all the prison overcrowding. So the past few nights, Caldwell’s had the cell to himself.”

  “Okay. So what happened?” Bentz asked as Montoya gunned his Mustang onto a major arterial again. Staring out the side window, Bentz barely noticed the sidewalks of New Orleans flash by. The storefronts and pedestrians and cars were a blur as he tried to wrap his brain around what Hayes was saying. In his mind’s eye he saw Donovan Caldwell, the odd older brother of the murdered twins. Donovan had been out of step with society, a bit of a recluse, even a little nasty. He had harbored a hatred of his sisters but refused to take the blame for their horrific deaths, maintaining his innocence.

  “Looks like suicide,” said Hayes. “I mean, the guy was in the cell alone, but who knows what goes on in the middle of the night in the big house? Guards can be bribed. Some inmates have more privileges than others. You know? It’s really too early to tell.”

  “Movie stuff.”

  “It happens.” Bentz nodded, thinking of the time difference. California was two hours behind New Orleans, so there hadn’t been much time for an investigation. Yet.

  “I don’t have all the details,” Hayes was saying. “But apparently he had some sort of tiny shiv, sliced his wrists, but had the guts and determination to leave a message before he bled out.”

  “A message?” Bentz felt a niggle of apprehension skitter through his insides. “What was it?”

  Montoya wheeled the Mustang around a final corner to the station and slowed for a couple of runners who cut across the street. As he did, he sent his partner another “What gives?” look.

  “He managed to write ‘I’M INNOCENT’ in block letters on the wall of his cell. Written using his own blood.”

  “Jesus,” Bentz whispered, a deep sadness stealing over him. He thought of the man everyone believed to be the 21 Killer now dead, at his own hand. Some people would celebrate, believing that a serial murderer had been taken off the streets for good; that he no longer would be chewing through taxpayers’ money; that, if he offed himself, all the better. Good riddance to bad rubbish! But if they were wrong? If Caldwell wasn’t 21? If he’d sliced his own wrists in resignation because he couldn’t take the fate he’d been handed? So out of his mind and desperate that he would take the time to leave a final proclamation of innocence as he bled out?

  “A guard found Caldwell this morning,” Jonas was saying. “He was rushed to the hospital, but it was too late to save him. DOA.” He paused for a second. “Look, because you called about the 21 Killer, I thought you’d want to know.”

  “I do. Thanks.”

  “Yeah, gotta run.”

  Bentz hung up.

  “Bad news?” Montoya asked as he pulled into the lot closest to the station and drove the Mustang into a vacant spot.

  “Not good.” Bentz had held out a tiny iota of hope that Donovan Caldwell would eventually confess, that he would admit to being 21. Now, that wasn’t going to happen. Ever. Nor would he ever be free from prison, vindicated and released because of the conviction of another perpetrator.

  Guilty or innocent, Donovan Caldwell was dead. A statistic. And Bentz, climbing out of the car and heading into the station house, was more determined than ever to either exonerate an innocent man or prove that the right suspect had been tried, convicted, and sent up the river
for life.

  Once home, Brianna was greeted by St. Ives, who meowed at her insistently until she fed him half a can of “tuna delight” from her refrigerator. Once his needs had been met, she started gathering her notes and information for Jase. She made two copies of everything she’d given to the police in Baton Rouge and New Orleans. She still wasn’t certain how her working relationship with Jase was going to play out, but she figured she needed a duplicate set just the same. As the printer chugged out pages, she made the call to Milo. After four rings, the phone went to voice mail.

  Brianna decided to leave a message. “Hi, Milo. This is Brianna Hayward, returning your calls. Sorry I missed you. Hope everything’s okay. Call back if you’d like.” After she ended the call, an uneasy feeling came over her, and she stared at the phone a minute, almost willing it to ring. Maybe it was just part of the pitfalls of her profession, but whenever a client phoned and she wasn’t able to return the call right away, she worried. In her line of work, she dealt with people who suffered from depression and anxiety and all forms of neuroses, some more dangerous than others. She had no idea why Milo was calling her; perhaps it was nothing important, but still, she worried.

  He’ll call back.

  Don’t make a mountain of a molehill. It was two lousy phone calls, nothing to get worked up about.

  And yet she did.

  So when the phone rang in her hand, she expected the caller to be Milo Tillman. Instead, Tanisha was on the other end of the line. “Didn’t you get my messages?” she demanded.

  “Yes, sorry.” She rinsed out the cat food can at the sink. “I was going to call back when I had a little time to talk. I’ve just been busy today. So, what’s up?”

  “Obviously you haven’t been online.”

  Obviously? “I’ve been out. Why?” Drying her hands, she glanced out the window over the sink and watched sunlight play upon the backyard.

  “I called earlier just to ask you about Selma; see how she’s doing. We’re really not that close, you know, even though I tried to keep her company that night after the meeting. I’m not getting much from her.”

  “Nothing’s changed. Nothing that I know of. I was about to call her.”

  “Then you don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?” Something in Tanisha’s tone gave her pause. “Did something happen?”

  “I just saw it on Twitter, from a friend in California. Breaking news.”

  “What?” From the tone of Tanisha’s voice, Brianna knew it wasn’t good.

  “Donovan Caldwell? The 21 Killer?”

  “He’s not the killer,” Brianna said automatically, then caught herself. “What about him?”

  “He’s dead, Brianna.”

  “He’s what?” she whispered, disbelieving.

  “Donovan Caldwell. He’s dead.”

  “What? No!” She was shaking her head, as if Tanisha could see her. “But that’s impossible.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s true. I double-checked.”

  “Oh, dear God,” she whispered, her knees threatening to buckle. “But he’s . . . he’s in prison.” Leaning against the counter for support, she gathered her wits. “Wait a second. He can’t be dead. He’s in his thirties and healthy. I just saw him. There has to be some mistake.” But she was already forcing her legs to move and crossing into the living room, where she’d left her laptop.

  “Hey, I’m just letting you know.”

  “But how? Why?”

  “Don’t know. I don’t think the details are out yet. At least not that I’ve seen online. Just that he was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.”

  “It’s just so hard to believe.”

  “I know.”

  She nearly fell onto the couch and fired up her laptop. Her fingers quivered over the keyboard as denial slithered through her brain. This couldn’t be. There had to be a mistake. Just speculation. A hoax. Donovan Caldwell, the loner cousin she’d barely known, couldn’t be dead.

  “I don’t know any details,” Tanisha said again. “I thought you might.”

  “No.” Trembling inside, Brianna squeezed her eyes shut. She had failed him. All her promises of justice came to mind, mocking and cold. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. He is . . . was my . . . but . . . I mean, I didn’t know him growing up . . . not really.” Her family and his had been separated by distance and disinterest, busy people, busy lives. But still, she remembered her aunt Cathy, a teacher, and her uncle Greg. They’d divorced after the loss of their daughters and the ensuing media circus, their son being tried and convicted for the crime. In a way they’d lost all three children years before, but now, with Donovan’s death, it was final.

  Why the hell was it taking so long for the computer to engage?

  Finally, the screen lit and she was able to type in Donovan Caldwell’s name.

  Her heart nearly stopped when she saw his picture along with several news feeds, two of which had the story. As Tanisha had indicated, the news of his death was just going viral. Brianna felt hot tears rush to her eyes, if not for the man and his loss of life, then for the injustice of it all, the frustration of her own impotence. In her heart she never believed that he killed Delta and Diana, the sisters he claimed to dislike, but now it didn’t really matter. Brianna had failed him by not proving his innocence before he died.

  Not just you, Brianna, but the system. The cops. The attorneys. The press. Everyone who helped convict him.

  Tears streaked down her face. “They’re not saying how he died?” she said, scanning the first article.

  “Not that I saw. But you can’t fit much on Twitter.”

  “I still can’t believe it.”

  “I know. Look, I gotta run. Still on the clock. I’ll call you later.”

  “Do . . . and thanks,” Brianna said, still reading as Tanisha hung up. Once disconnected, she continued to search the Internet, but so far the details of Donovan Caldwell’s death were sparse.

  But Jase possessed the resources to find out more.

  She would go to him first. Then she would try the police, though she figured she would hit a brick wall there. Jase was her best bet.

  So why the hell hadn’t he called with the news about Donovan Caldwell? Why Tanisha?

  Granted, Tanisha Lefevre worked at a job where she was continuously on the Internet, but still, shouldn’t crime reporter Jason Bridges have access to even more information, just as quickly? Probably even faster?

  “I guess you’re going to find out,” she said, dashing her tears away and packing up her laptop, iPad, and the notes she’d printed out. Though it was earlier than the agreed-upon time to meet, she decided to head to his apartment. If he wasn’t there, she would wait.

  Rand Cooligan’s acid reflux was acting up again. Big-time.

  Driving toward New Orleans, he kept one hand on the steering wheel of his pickup and searched the console with his free hand. He was pretty damned sure he’d left a bottle of Tums in the truck, but so far no luck. He rummaged around the rat’s nest of lipsticks, receipts, gum, sunglasses, and whatever else Barb decided to leave in his truck, his truck, and didn’t find one stinkin’ antacid. For the love of St. Mike, couldn’t she keep her crap in her own car? Wasn’t that why they’d bought the damned Ford Explorer from her cousin? So she could have her own vehicle?

  “Damn it all to hell,” he growled, the radio playing some country song he didn’t recognize, the interior of the cab cooled by the cross breeze as he drove this stretch of country road. Thinking the bottle could have rolled into the backseat of his king cab, he glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing other than his son’s baseball bag and Barb’s jacket. No bottle of Tums. No little, half-used roll of any kind of antacid.

  Damn, his gut ached. Burned. He’d probably have to pull over at the next convenience store or gas station and—

  Son of a bitch!

  He stood on the brakes.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” The truck shimmied and fishtailed, sliding and sprayi
ng gravel as the tires hit the shoulder. Staring through the bug-spattered windshield, he saw her standing butt-ass naked in the middle of the road and waving frantically. A naked girl! No, a woman! She looked like she’d been through hell. Her skin was burned and grimy, her hair matted against her head and so dirty he couldn’t really tell the color. Blood was visible on her neck, and her face was twisted in sheer, full-blown, nutso panic.

  “What the fucking hell?” he said under his breath, his heart thudding wildly. For the love of Christ, he could have hit her. Killed her. And killed himself. Let alone what would have happened to the vehicle.

  She was hobbling toward him. Still waving, propped up on some kind of tree branch that she used as a crutch. What the hell was this? A shakedown? He looked around, saw no one else, then let the truck idle as he climbed from the cab and stepped onto the sunbaked asphalt.

  In obvious pain, her ankle swollen to the size of a small melon, she hurried awkwardly toward him.

  “Please, please help me,” she said, her voice a crackling whisper. “Please, before he comes.” She was scared spitless.

  “Who?” He looked around. “Before who comes?” Again, there was no one, just a hound dog baying and bounding through the field nearby.

  “Him!” Hobbling on her crooked tree limb, she hitched her way past him more quickly than he’d expected and made her way to the passenger side of his truck. “The freak. He’s coming!” she added hoarsely. “Please. Just take me away from here. Now!” She wasn’t waiting for an invitation.

  “Hey, slow down. You’re okay,” he said, though she was definitely not. Not by a long shot. Whack job. Probably high on something. And scared out of her mind. Hallucinating maybe. Could be dangerous. And where the hell were her clothes? “Wait, you can’t just—”

  She’d reached the cab and was opening the door.

  “Whoa! Hey, look!” He rounded to the passenger side. “What’s going on here?”

  “You’re helping me, that’s what.” Those frightened eyes stared straight at him, her terrified gaze boring into his soul. “And you’re saving my life, and maybe getting a damned medal of honor or bravery or whatever it is they hand out to citizens doing a good deed. But we have to leave now! He’s . . . he’s after me. And he’s got Chloe! I mean, I think so. Oh, Jesus, we have to go! Now!”